


War Is A Song Sung In Thirds

by joyousNuance



Series: sunt lacrimae rerum [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 00:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyousNuance/pseuds/joyousNuance
Summary: Silence was always the more eloquent tongue.





	War Is A Song Sung In Thirds

You have dreamed this.

There were no words between them. No more, anyway. Anything that was to be said had already been said a thousand times in furtive glance, in stolen touch, in soft whisper in the dark. Silence had always been the more eloquent tongue. No, there was nothing more to be said, no more words to be shared. There was only the end, and the slow march towards it.

She supposes it is the calm before the storm, or perhaps more accurately the quiet before the slaughter. The waiting is always the worst. In every vision, in every dream, in every fragment through which she has seen this day, she has always hated the waiting. Waiting, and the slow drone of deafening silence that hangs like a shroud. She remembers, unbidden, a quote from her book:  _ “War is a song sung in thirds. The silence, the killing, the silence.”  _ She had always liked that line. 

She can tell this silence is killing him. He fidgets with his hands, brow creased as he looks forward, looks ever-forward, not daring a moment to look back at the road behind, the life behind. She can tell he wants to, but he doesn’t. Perhaps he has only seen glimpses in shaking nightmares and forgotten dreams, but he has seen it same as her. He has accepted it. He will bear the burden. He will soldier on. They both will.

They must. They do. They have both seen this. You have both dreamed this.

In his head, there was always more time. In his head, there were so many more things he could have said - useless now, but he’d have liked to say them, to hear how they tasted and see her lips curl the way they do when she’s pretending not to hear whatever nonsense he’s spouting this time, the subtle stuttering of shoulders that means she’s stifling a laugh, the effervescence of teeth flashed in a dazzle that would blind him, shades or no. In his head there was always time for one more. Once more, to see her smile, once more to see her laugh. Yes, he thinks: that would have been enough.

He takes off his shades. There’s a smudge on the left lens, some smear of dirt or moisture or oil or blood that streaks his vision just barely enough to be cognizant. Or perhaps there is no smudge. He stares down at black frames, buffing the lenses with the edge of his shirt. She’s watching, out of the corner of her eye. He knows this. He knows this because he’s been watching her out of the corner of his since the day they first met.

He turns his head, forcing her gaze. There are no more words between them, but this is language enough on its own. Always the more eloquent tongue. Eyes that never had to construct their own walls meet eyes that never had the luxury of hiding. There is a moment, perhaps there are two. She turns her head, and silence fills his head once again. He nods, perhaps to himself. He puts the shades back on. There’s a smudge on the left lens. You have dreamed this.

Far above, death descends on her scarlet flagship. 


End file.
